Jewels on a String
by jumun
Summary: A disconnected "around five-hundred words" collection · · · ch.3; Sakura peers at him through pink strands, silent. Anticipating. —kakasaku
1. pearl:kakasaku

**Pearl**_  
>a chance meeting<em>

.4.6.0.

**_H_**e plays guitar in front of an old bakery; the smell of pastries accompanies him as he moves his fingers over the strings in a simple melody that draws her feet to a stop before the closed guitar case lying on the cool concrete.

Sakura watches, unaware of the breath caught in her throat, entranced.

Years of experience play over his hands, blunt fingernails strumming in an effortless way that speaks a thousand words in a single note. Unruly hair, glimmering gold in the sunlight hangs over his face and obscures his eyes from view, even as he reveals bits of his soul in the song that echoes down the street with startling clarity.

Raindrops, like sparkling pearls, dot the skin below his rolled up sleeves. Slowly, they slide down to sink into the worn denim of his jeans; a veritable river as the sun disappears behind a slate gray parade of clouds. With them comes the rain; a muted drizzle that quickly grows into something more.

As other people run for the shelter that nearby awnings provide, the young woman keeps her place. In the absence of the sun; the radiant warmth, his hair fades to the shade of the moon, a silvery color that darkens with every unrelenting drop. His shirt, once white, goes sheer, revealing a multitude of scars that stretch across skin and sinewy muscle in dizzying patterns.

For every scar Sakura sees, there is another second she can't bring herself to look away.

The scent of baked bread vanishes beneath the fresh scent of rain, the people at the edges of her vision disappear amongst the droplets littering her eyelashes; amongst the chills coursing through her bones.

Unfazed, he continues to play until the very end of his song, then it dissipates in the air, and for a minute, Sakura wonders if it was ever there. But, the very evidence of it is soaked into her skin, into her very being.

He looks up, and a single eye meets her, full of meaning; a bare moment where Sakura is absolutely floored before it slips away behind a pleasant smile. She has no words as he rises to his feet, stretching his legs briefly before leaning down to gently tuck his drenched guitar into its case. Quietly, the man departs, his watery footsteps fading into the distance.

As though she has been spellbound, Sakura snaps back to herself, tossing curious glances across the faces spilling back into the street. Not one of them is the man with the guitar; the one who had gazed at her as if he couldn't understand why she had stopped.

Why she had _cared_.

Just as the sun emerges from behind the clouds, Sakura smiles to herself and promises to return.


	2. amber:kakasaku

**Amber**  
><em>i<em>_'__m __delighted_

.4.8.0.

"**_I_**'m not that kind of girl."

Kakashi turns his head, looking over his shoulder, at the younger woman standing not two feet behind him; fingers curled into long blush-colored hair, brushing it back to regard him with a quiet, stirring smile. He bets himself 20,000 yen she wouldn't describe it as stirring but it's how he feels.

She sighs, "Really," her tone holds no admonishment; almost as way of explanation, and he wonders at himself as he considers the idea. His thoughts mix themselves up in every sort of way, but the one thing that remains clear is a striking sense of loneliness.

He blames the hour —the alcohol for the sluggishness in his thoughts, the ache for something he can taste, can touch and hold; his morals feel like they've been bent.

If they'd been broken, he wouldn't be leaving the elevator.

"But," she continues softly, leaning against the Victorian papered wall at the back of the elevator —a classic cage style that almost makes him nervous with its dangerous beauty, "I'm not against company, if that's what you're offering."

The light overhead bathes her hair in gold, reflects off the skin of her shoulder with a shimmer —glitter, he mouths, and he doesn't think he's ever been on good terms with lady luck but he asks her name. She shakes her head, eyes sparkling.

"Sakura." Fitting. He is almost eager to try it out; her name. It coats his tongue like honey, heavy and sweet.

He sees something a bit more familiar in that sparkle, that smile. It takes a moment to recognize it from the mirror; from those moments in the early morning where he takes a minute to realize the scenes he'd seen in the night were nothing more than a cruel imagining, drawn into life by a wandering mind.

Warmth, kisses, whispers, sighs. There are so many things he wants, so many things he can offer someone if they'd just be willing to keep him a secret. It's too much to ask sometimes, and he knows it's a lot, but this time, he knows it could be just that. No one would know just how weak he had gotten to be. Except for the two of them.

"Okay."

In the elevator of an old hotel, Kakashi meets a woman who has a habit of wishing for the impossible —she doesn't say what. He only knows this because she tells him so with a quiet voice that settles on his skin, sinking in to lay upon his bones with a warmth he doesn't think he has time to fully explore. It intrigues him, he admits, and it's been a while since he hasn't been able to see through the people he meets. It's a cliche, he thinks, somewhere, but that doesn't matter. He pauses, finger hovering over the panel before he asks her which floor is hers.


	3. ruby:kakasaku

**Ruby  
><strong>_want __to __be __your __silhouette_

.5.2.2.

_**S**_he lies in his apartment, stretched across the floor between his bed and the window, a cup of cool coffee resting in her hand as she watches the rain cascade down the glass. Her eyes light up with every thunder strike, every bolt of lightning, and Kakashi watches her from his perch on his bed, legs folded beneath him and head quirked to the side.

"Sakura," Oddly enough, he finds himself fumbling with his words; for once, he is at a loss. Distractedly he reaches for something to occupy his fingers; it turns out to be a pen. Kakashi waits for her response; for her eyes to land on him, bright and full of intangible things.

"Doesn't it look beautiful?" She turns to face him, and it's lucky his hearing is good, because she falls into a whisper mid-sentence. Her eyes move over his face slowly, caught between searching and memorizing, he knows, because even if she tells him nothing of herself, she tells him so many other things; from the way she loves kissing the corners of his mouth, to the way she loves hearing him speak —love is a word she loves, she says; it is a language by itself, and she isn't afraid to use it even if she isn't in love.

Even if he is. It's stupid and it's careless, and he's done it, but it'll be his secret.

Kakashi looks out the window, to the violence being laid upon the earth, the houses and the people, and it is beautiful, in it's own twisted way. He tells her so, listening to her laugh gently, as if too much sound will disrupt the magic —wherever she sees it. And, it twists something in him, her hand hovering over her eyes, happiness glimmering in a fine layer over her skin, like rain.

He wants to touch it.

"Come here," the quiet command comes without his consent, bypassing the filter he keeps between his mind and mouth, picking up enough intensity on the way that it makes her laughter pause, her eyelashes fluttering shut to rest upon her cheeks as she listens with a subtle pleasure he can see on her face. She sits up, pulling her bare legs up to balance her before she crawls —slow, pronounced movements, to meet him at the edge of his bed, knees remaining on the floor and fingertips moving gracefully over soft black fabric.

Sakura peers at him through pink strands, silent. Anticipating.

Her enthusiasm is contagious.

Letting the reins slip just a little, his hand wanders across the pale column of her throat, catching on the soft line of her jaw. Kakashi breathes, warmth flowing over her skin, lips brushing over her temple as he tilts her chin, up, up, up to meet him where he leans over her, waiting. His other hand sweeps down her forearm before grabbing it, tugging her forward; closer in. His tongue slides across her lower lip, effortlessly coaxing her to part her lips for him before engaging hers in a languid dance.

She moans, breathy and low, and it's just another lexicon of the language.


End file.
